


Down the Line

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anniversaries, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Panties, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Sexting, Terrible Jokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-07-21 13:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7389478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Roman find ways to cope with time and distance.</p><p>Tags likely to change with future installments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June 30, 2016: Honolulu and Pensacola

He really ought to be asleep. Not like he had a lot of time left to stay in bed; tomorrow was already booked up with a long day of media, starting bright and early, and then another flight and another show and another dozen things in between.

He was comfortable - much as you could be after ten rounds with Rollins, anyway - iced-down, wrapped-up, with the honest kind of tired that followed a good match sinking steady down into his bones. The room was dark and cool, and the bed was clean and plush. Big enough to hold anyone he might've felt like sharing with. Instead of stretching out luxuriously and zonking out on the crisp sheets, though, he was curling in on himself and pressing his phone to his ear, counting the rings while he made a nest of the blankets.

After the fifth, just when he expected voicemail: "Dean? Wha-- you good?"

Roman's voice came through bleary and thick, and Dean winced to himself in the dark. Everybody wanted to fuck with the Champ, even the time zones. "Fuck," he said. "What time is it there? I just woke you up at, like, the asscrack of dawn, didn't I?"

"Little bit."

"Sorry."

"S'okay. Not like I've got anything to do today but sleep in," he said, bitterness creeping into his tone. The pause between them was awkward, and he heard Roman swallow hard into it before he went on. "I'm glad you called. It's good to hear your voice," he added, softer, warm across the ocean between them.

"Dulcet tones," he agreed, and could almost see the way Roman would've smiled at that if he were here on the other pillow, teetering between rolling his eyes and dropping a kiss on his forehead. Of all the edges he knew he could push Roman to, that one had somehow become his favorite place to make the big dog balance.

"Tell me about your day," Roman said, bringing him back before he had to think too hard about when he went so soft.

"Pretty sweet, really," he admitted, the words still tasting unfamiliar in his mouth without a heavy shot of sarcasm. "Pineapple cheesecake in catering. Beat up on Seth in front of a hot crowd; always a good time. Got lei'd at the airport, so that was pretty cool."

Roman groaned and then chuckled, finally breaking out a long _booooo_ when Dean didn't respond right away, in favor of just nuzzling into the pillow and letting Roman's far-away noises settle over him.

"You really must miss me, to laugh at that one," he offered after a moment of more or less easy quiet.

"I really do."

"Wish you were here."

"You and me both, Babe." Roman sighed, heavily. "Sorry I fucked this up for us."

He let that sit for awhile; they'd already been through all that, and he wasn't up for a rehash tonight. Eventually, he said, "Got some ideas 'bout how you can make it up to me."

"Yeah?"

"Send me a dirty picture."

Roman laughed, rich and warm in his ear, even over the fuzzy connection. "You even know how to open pictures on your phone?"

"Eh, I'm a pretty resourceful guy." He chuckled. "Think I could learn. If properly motivated."

"Pretty sure you could get anybody on the tour to show you what they've got, up close and in person."

"In the flesh?" The long day was catching up, pulling a laugh up out of his chest, a little hysterical but not so loud that he couldn't hear Roman's appreciative groan at the other end of the line.

"That'd be okay, you know?" Roman said, after they'd spent a little time listening to each other breathe - connected even with the hour both too late and too early to carry a solid conversation. "You shouldn't have to be alone just because I did something stupid."

"Bein' stupid now," he grumbled. "You really think I could just stick any warm body in your place and call it a day?"

"I'm being an asshole, huh?" Roman said ruefully. "Sorry. Feels like that's all I do anymore."

"Just imagine what a royal dick you could be if you really put your back into it."

Roman laughed again, but it was tighter and less easy than before.

"Dude, don't get yourself twisted up. Take the time off and take care of yourself."  He grinned into the dark, wide and wicked even without his favorite audience there to appreciate it.  "Spend some time composing the glamour shots you're gonna send to make it up to me."

Roman made a soft sound, mostly chuckle but with an edge of something less cheerful, the kind of noise that would've drawn Dean in to kiss his neck if he were in his rightful place by his side. "Love you, Champ. Sleep tight."


	2. July 1/2, 2016: Tokyo and Pensacola

It was late - or early - by the time he made it back to his room, loose and warm with the sake he'd helped Becky Lynch put away down in the bar. The girl had looked like she could use a friend, or at least a solid body to block her path across the room to rip into Natalya right there in hotel lobby where it didn't count for anything. He remembered that feeling, and they had the luxury of not needing to drive anywhere at all for tomorrow's show. So, they'd taken turns pouring each other shots of rice wine from the little ceramic pitcher, and Becky had eventually stopped glaring at Natty and Charlotte in their opposite corners of the bar and started telling funny stories about the time she'd lived in Japan, littering the conversation with what he was pretty sure were terrible puns in both languages. 

"Thanks for the company, Dean. You're an Amb-ROSE among thorns," she'd said when he'd walked her to her door without incident. 

"Couldn't let you go around kicking 'lass' without a paying crowd on my watch. What kinda Champion do you take me for?"

"Finest kind." She'd smiled, and there was a space where he thought either of them could have made an invitation. Neither of them did, and Becky'd swiped her door open and said, "Next time, it's my round," before she ducked inside and he'd slouched back toward the elevator. 

Whatever else he was these days, he was still the guy who'd walked off without his phone, leaving it tucked into a pocket of the bag that held his gear and the Title. He fished it out and flopped back on the mattress, scrolling through all the crap on his screen with one hand while the other unlaced his boots and tossed them over the side of the bed.

Invitations to get together and catch up from people he hadn't talked to in years, who'd evidently heard he might be worth knowing again. Drake giving him the friendliest kind of shit about not having had time to grab a beer in Orlando the other day. A text that just read _tomorrow_ from a number that he still recognized, even though he'd finally deleted the entry for 'Bag, Scum' from his address book last month. 

From Roman: _about that dirty picture..._

He tapped on the little icon to download the picture, and groaned out a laugh, watching the screen fill with what looked to be a litter of golden retriever puppies, fur wet and matted with dirt, play-fighting in a mud-puddle. 

"Brother, we need to talk about limits, if this is the kind of shit you're getting into," he murmured to the room, like Roman was there with him to catch it. Into the phone, he just typed _ur the worst_. 

The time change was kind of fucking with him again; though it was early in the morning of the 2nd for him, he was pretty sure it was still yesterday in Florida. Whatever time it was, Roman must've been awake and watching his phone, because the answer came quick. 

_i'm not the worst guy_

_& i'm not the best guy_

_but i'm YOUR guy_

The picture attached this time was way, way better: Roman, in his own bed at home, spread out on top of the soft green sheets Dean liked best and smiling indulgently at the camera. His hair was loose behind him, and he was wearing one of Dean's old pieces of merch, the _Cincinnati is Ambrose Country_ logo stretched across his chest. His left hand rucked up the hem of the shirt to reveal the bronze skin of his stomach while the other curled around his cock, pulled free of his boxers, heavy in his hand and dark at the tip. 

He looked for a long time, letting want pool sweet and hot in his belly and saving up little pieces of the image for later – the stray lock of hair at Roman's temple that always wanted to curl when he got sweaty; the shadow of his beard trying to grow back in thick while it wasn't being trimmed for TV; the way the shirt twisted around Roman's torso so that the piece with _Ambrose_ stamped in red rested more or less over his heart; the way he was leaking against the pad of his thumb at just the moment the flash had gone off – , even as he reminded himself that the picture, and the guy in it, were his to keep.

He hit the button to call Roman, and once it connected, opened with, "You are the cheesiest fucker I know, and we work with John Cena _and_ Bo Dallas."

"Oh, baby, talk to me some more about Bo." Roman laughed. “You know that's why I did all that.”

He laughed and shifted on the hotel sheets, more expensive than Roman's, but still not nearly as good, not least because they smelled faintly like bleach instead of leave-in conditioner and the sea air they might have been allowed to dry in on a sunny afternoon. “So, that's the 'why'. What about the 'how'? 'Cause I gotta say, if you made one of your cousins pull camera crew on this, you're gonna have to get him a way better Christmas present.”

Roman gave an indignant snort. “Dude, I take it back. If the other options are Jimmy and Jey, then let's talk about Bo all night.”

He laughed again, the ease of sharing that across however many thousand miles settling warm in his veins alongside the sake.

“For real, though?” Roman continued. “Used a tripod and a timer. Turns out I have a really nice camera I never had time to learn how to use, 'til now.”

“So that's what you did today?... Yesterday?... Whenever?”

“Last night for me. Gonna spend most of today doing laundry now.”

“Nice. That mean you got B-roll? Outtakes?”

“Bloopers, blunders, and boners,” Roman agreed. “When you come home next week we can stay in bed all day. Watch 'em as a slideshow.”

“Rather have a reenactment.” His voice was thick as he said it, resolutely ignoring that they'd both thought of Pensacola, Roman's place – Roman – as _home_ for him.

“That could be arranged,” Roman said, soft and deep, the warmth in his tone heating him up all over again. “Been looking at pictures of you today, too. Shots from the crowd all over the internet. Fun night?”

“Yeah. Woulda been more fun with you.”

“Rollins would've got punched sooner, anyway,” Roman grumbled.

“Like I said, 'more fun'.” He smiled into the empty room and fidgeted with the button of his fly. “What else would you have made go different tonight?” he asked, letting his voice drop low.

Roman was quiet for a beat. “Is this...” he started. “Are we having sex?”

He laughed again and took the opportunity to wriggle out of his jeans. “Well, I mean, _I_ was going to – somebody sent me this pretty sexy dick pic, you know? – and I was kind of hoping you'd help me out. So, like, 'what are you wearing, stud?'” he said, adopting a phony falsetto for the last line.

Roman chuckled, abashed but with the program now. “If I was there tonight, one thing I'd've done was keep your mouth full, so you wouldn't be doing that voice right now.”

“Now you're talking.”

And he kept right on talking, voice a little bit wrecked by the end: about the shit he would have pulled in the ring, about the bruises he would have sucked onto Dean's hip backstage and the way he would have made him moan in the back of a taxi or squirm through a karaoke number in jeans he'd already shot a load into underneath a little bar table. Talked until Dean was sticky and spent and not so alone in the hotel bed.

They were quiet for a little bit, the travel and the match and the booze and the orgasm all combining to pull Dean down toward sleep, Roman sticking it out with him.

“Hey, Babe? Do me a favor?”

“Mmhm. Anything. Long as I don't gotta move, 'cause I don't think I could right now.”

Roman chuckled again; compliment accepted. “Please, please, please don't lose your phone.”

“Not a chance. I'd have to stop looking at it first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go look at (and love up on!) the [super-lovely art](http://ahhsuka.tumblr.com/post/148962701202/down-the-line-apgeeksout) of this chapter by ahhsuka on tumblr! <3


	3. July 9, 2016: Toronto and Pensacola

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be four future chapters, set between mid-July and shortly after the brand-split. They're planned but not yet written, so I don't have a regular schedule planned. /0\
> 
> In the million years since I last posted, ahhsuka on tumblr made really lovely art that you should check out and love up on [here](http://ahhsuka.tumblr.com/post/148962701202/down-the-line-apgeeksout). <3

“Excuse me? Mr. Ambrose?” the unfamiliar voice came to him through the crowd at catering, where he'd paused to snag a cold bottle of water on his way back to the locker room to tape his hands and get warm for the main event.

“Depends who's asking,” he said, though he tried not to look too forbidding. Carrying the Championship meant that more people came looking for him on any given night, but not all of them were out for a piece of his hide.

“Package for you, sir,” said a kid in a uniform shirt, brandishing an oversized mailing envelope and a clipboard, wide eyes wandering to Dean's shoulder and the belt balanced there.

“Fuck. Am I being served?” He tried to think back to the last time he'd been through Toronto. He'd been pissed not to be taking the belt home that night, but he was pretty sure he hadn't done anything too illegal or unsavory at the all-ages club he'd let Zayn drag him to after the show.

“I... don't think so?” The courier held the 9x12 envelope out for his examination: if he hadn't instantly recognized the slanted letters that spelled out _Dean Ambrose, c/o WWE, Ricoh Coliseum_ , he'd still have known the return address by heart.

He smiled easier and motioned for the clipboard, scrawled his signature on the receipt. He found some cash in his jacket pockets for a tip, and agreed to take a selfie with the courier, mailer clamped between his elbow and ribs to leave his hand free to throw a hang-loose at the kid's phone camera.

He snugged the water bottle into his jacket and headed back toward the locker room, looking over his mystery mail as he went. The envelope was curiously light, the cardboard stiff under his fingers and the bottom bowing out only the barest amount around the shape of its cargo. Whatever Roman had sent him felt like a little bit of nothing.

He knew it would be _something_ when he got it open.

He pushed into the locker room and settled the Title on top of a dressing table. He took a long drink of cold water and shrugged out of his jacket, reached for a roll of tape, and started winding it around his knuckles.

Wrapped up right, and with a couple sets of antsy push-ups out of the way, and the envelope sitting on the bench at his side, he snaked his phone out of his gym bag and tapped out a text.

_looks like i got a secret admirer_

It only took Roman a beat to reply. _yeah? Should I be jealous?_

_dunno. aint opened it yet_

_?_

_delaying gratification i guess_

_so patient. You feelin' ok?_

He grinned. His guy had a point. And he had a present. _im goin in_

He reached for the envelope and jerked at the pulltab, opening up a neat tear along the top edge. He upended it, and a slick scrap of fabric slithered out into his palm, sheer black, edged in soft gold lace. His phone chimed again before he'd really had the chance to examine his bounty.

_anything worth writing home about?_

He laughed, amused that Roman undoubtedly thought he was being smooth, and admittedly feeling a little prickle of heat at what it might mean that he was holding what he felt pretty sure a closer look would reveal to be a pair of frilly panties.

_maybe. wanna tell me what i'm lookin at?_

_they say a picture's worth 1000 words, right?_

He stroked his thumb over the fabric in an eager circle while he waited for the picture to load. Gradually, the screen filled with a shot of Roman, snapping a pic of his own reflection in a full-length mirror. In the glass, he was stripped to the waist, a pair of sleek gunmetal dress pants unfastened and slung low, the hand that wasn't occupied with the phone camera hooked into the fabric and shifting it aside to reveal the strip of gold lace that ran beneath his navel and nestled into the cut of muscle at his hip. He was smiling, small and sly, and his eyes were fixed hot and sharp on the mirror, making it seem like he was looking straight out at Dean. Like he'd known how the breath would catch in Dean's throat looking at the shot however many days later.

 _fuuuuck_ he typed back after another long moment drinking in the image, his hands beginning to sweat under rough tape and fine fabric.

_that's only one word, but I'll take it_

He shook his head and scrolled back up to the picture, realizing slowly that he recognized the rich wood paneling in background. He remembered standing in front of that same mirror, the fine fabric of a crisp new suit lush and unfamiliar against his skin, Roman's sure hands reaching from behind him to knot a blue tie and fold the crisp white collar of the shirt into place. Remembered Roman's breath soft on his neck and meeting his gaze in the reflection before turning in his arms to kiss him so long and thorough that they were both rumpled by the time they tumbled out of the dressing room and into the main floor of the tailor's shop.

His reverie was broken by a fist on the door, one of the agents calling in, “Gorilla in two, Ambrose.”

“On it,” he shouted back, voice rough.

He typed out a quick _brb gotta pound seth_ , threw his phone back into his bag, and dumped the remnants of his water bottle over his head, chuckling to himself about cold showers. He was already bounding up to the top of the entrance ramp before he registered that he'd jammed the panties into the pocket of his jeans instead of tucking them away with the rest of his shit in the locker room.

* * *

By the time he made it back to the locker room – after the three-count and Seth staggering and fuming his way back up the ramp empty-handed, a few words to the crowd and a circuit of the perimeter of the ring to sign posters and pose for pictures, to give fist-bumps and accept hugs and let some kids trace reverent fingers over the face of the Title – there was another string of texts on his phone.

 _I'd like pictures of that_ Roman had sent. _whichever kind of pounding you mean_

He snickered at the corny line, even as something twisted hot in his gut at the image of his own fist wound up in Seth's hair, jerking a moan out of him, and Roman's eyes on them both, hungry and approving.

_meantime I got a couple more for you_

Another from the dressing room: Roman getting back into his street-clothes, winking cheesily into the mirror as he pulled dark jeans up over the silk-clad curve of his ass.

He reached into his pocket to fish the panties back out, and imagined instead being able to reach for Roman – skimming a hand under his waistband, denim rougher on the back of his knuckles than the filmy material and supple skin beneath his palm, the heat of his boy's body melting all the aches out of his own. Or, most of them, anyway, he reflected as his cock throbbed, just this side of painful, inside his jeans.

_thought about you all day while I had these on_

He scrolled down for the next shot: Roman back in his own bedroom, uncovered except for the panties and the dark cascade of his loose hair over his shoulder. Warm sunlight painted his exposed skin soft and rich, threw the angles and definition of his body into sharp relief, highlighted the way the shimmery fabric stretched and strained around the bulge of his stiff cock.

The material was sweaty and crumpled in his palm when he eventually scrolled away from the text chain to dial a call.

“Hey, Babe,” Roman rumbled into his ear. “Good show?”

He laughed, breathless, into the receiver. “'Good show?' he asks,” he grumbled, trusting Roman to hear the affection underneath the put-on irritation. “If Woods tells me tomorrow that everyone's twittering about my ring-boner, you realize there's gonna be hell to pay, right?”

It was Roman's turn to laugh. “Haven't seen anything online yet, but if you want to talk about your boner, I'm all ears.”

“Fuck you,” he said, grin spreading broad and easy over his face, even though Roman couldn't see it.

“If I was there? In a heartbeat,” Roman said, and went on to lay out how easily he'd have gone down to his knees for the champ. How he'd gone through his whole day, sharply aware of the texture against his skin. How he'd buzzed with the secret and the anticipation of this very conversation.

He hadn't hit the shower yet, which was just as well, since he felt a fresh sheen of sweat breaking out across his skin the longer Roman talked. He tipped his forehead against the cool metal of an empty locker and sucked in a shaky breath, palming himself through his jeans, the panties still tangled between his fingers.

He raised them to his face, the delicate lace snagging a little on the couple day's worth of stubble around his mouth. It was dumb, probably. After riding in his pocket through the match, any scent that remained clinging to the fabric was probably his own instead of Roman's. Still, he breathed in a lungful of salt-sweat and the faint crisp-newness of the material underneath and sighed it back out into the phone.

“That's good,” Roman purred. “You were so quiet there for a minute, I thought you might have gagged yourself –” he paused to chuckle at the involuntary noise that climbed out of Dean's throat at the thought of a mouthful of silk, spit leaking from the corners to slick both his chin and the fingers pressing past his lips, before continuing, “ – to keep the whole place from hearing you fall apart for me.”

“Nope,” he said, trying to let Roman hear how breathless he was. He scrunched to trap the phone between his shoulder and his jaw, and reached down to undo first his belt and then his fly, gasping with relief when his cock sprang free of the constricting denim. “Let 'em hear.”

He had a locker room to himself tonight, so it was sort of an empty gesture, but he didn't mean it any less. He'd built a pretty long resume of embarrassing shit over the years: bad choices and worse ideas and stupid regrets. Being with Roman – being Roman's – wasn't ever going to be on it.

“Talk to me, Babe.”

Roman's voice was deep and a little rough, and heat spiked in Dean's belly as he recognized the tone: the one that meant his boy was just as close to the edge as he was. The sound that punched out of his gut didn't quite amount to words, but Roman seemed to follow him anyway.

He pulled himself free of his briefs, breathing hard at the shock of cool air against his hot skin and the friction of the clothes still bunched up at the base of his cock, the layers not removed, but simply shoved out of the way just far enough to give him access. He lifted one hand back to steady the phone – to make sure that he wasn't holding out on his boy, and that he'd pick up every sound that Roman poured down the line – and smoothed the panties out over the other before he wrapped his fingers and the silky material and the lace all around himself at once.

The fabric was slippery against his skin and warm with his body heat, starting to cling to the head where he'd already begun to drip. “How'd you wear these all day without going off?” he gasped, squeezing that much tighter while he thought about the panties secretly caressing Roman's body.

“They're nice, right? Thinking we ought to get you a pair or ten.” Roman's voice was balanced between playful and ragged, a little of both at once, and Dean shook a little – a judder down his spine and through his spread thighs and locked knees – at the thought that that was all for him, just like the pictures and the delivery and whatever other schemes his boy might come up with before he was back at his side.

“Yeah, yeah. You just want me to give you a fashion show,” he said, hoping Roman would register the leer in his voice, even though his breathing had fallen into a series of fast, shallow pants. He pushed harder into his own fist, hips jerking hard when his shifting grip dragged a strip of lace across his leaking tip.

He came with Roman's voice in his ear; a warm, “That's right. You got me there.” registered as his vision went to sparks and he shot into the little puddle of silk and lace with a rough cry that he knew Roman would recognize, as many times as he'd wrung it out of him in person.

He'd barely recovered, sinking from his now-wobbly legs to the surface of a bench and tucking his over-sensitive length back inside his briefs, when he heard Roman following him over the edge from halfway across the continent, Dean's name in his mouth as he went. It'd be a close race, deciding whether that was as satisfying as hefting the Title earlier tonight had been.

He wasn't quite high enough on adrenaline to lay that thought out across the phone connection. Instead, he offered, “You're getting pretty good at this long-distance thing.”

Roman laughed. “There's only so many hours a day I can usefully spend in the gym. I got a lot of time on my hands to get creative.”

“Bet time ain't the only thing on your hands right now,” he snickered, scrubbing his palm down his thigh again, to the place where his own load dribbled from the folds of the ruined panties onto his jeans. He felt another pulse of satisfaction at the thought of Roman having gotten just as sticky and sweaty on his end – of Roman having planned and worked the logistics of getting dirty right along with him.

“Remind me why I like you again?” Roman groaned, phony-disgusted.

“It's my singing voice. Fucking mellifluous. Brings all the boys to the yard.”

“I do love that,” Roman agreed softly, leaving a pause long enough that Dean knew he was waiting for it to sink in that by ' _that_ ' Roman really meant ' _you_ '. “So, I gotta stay on my toes,” he continued, eventually. “Don't want you getting bored of me.”

“Not happening.” His voice came straight out of his chest and into the phone, fierce and immediate; he'd have tackled Roman to the bed if he'd been in the room with him. "Hate to break it to you, but you're stuck with me, Sunshine."

He could hear the smile in Roman's voice when he answered - maybe he was picturing himself willingly pinned to the mattress under Dean's weight too. "I guess we all got crosses to bear."

"Good thing you got broad shoulders, huh?"


	4. July 12, 2016: Grand Rapids and Pensacola

“Dean?” Roman's voice was warm, even distorted as it was by the crackly speakers of the laptop, and whatever lamp he was sitting by lit him up soft. Made his hair extra-shiny where it swept back from his face, his eyes bright where they cut back and forth between the camera and his own empty screen. Made Dean's chest feel full just looking at him. “You there, Babe?”

He bounced lightly onto the hotel bed, into a spot that he thought would put him in range of the lens at the top of the screen. “Workin' out a new gimmick,” he said. “Thinkin' I'll call it 'You Can't See Me'; whaddaya think? Been done?”

“Sounds like money.” Roman smiled at the screen. “I like seeing you better, though.”

He snorted and shucked his shirt off over his head. “Then feast your eyes, brother.”

He dropped the crumpled t-shirt onto the keyboard, and Roman had the nerve to laugh at him. “Yeah, yuk it up, Reigns. I borrowed this computer from Naomi. You really want my tombstone to read: _Here lies Dean Ambrose, who got jizz up under the spacebar_?”

Roman laughed harder, lines crinkling up around his eyes. The mirth spreading over his features was good and real and something Dean hadn't gotten to watch in too long. He shut his mouth and soaked it in.

“Now there's an image,” Roman said dryly, though he couldn't seem to wipe the grin off his face. “Keep on talking sexy like that, and you'll get me making a mess of my computer.” 

He snickered. “Shut up. You love it.”

“I do,” Roman agreed. His face had gone sober and his eyes were soft when he cut his gaze directly into the camera. “I love you.”

Dean groaned, though it was mostly for show; soft words from his boy hardly even made him squirm anymore. “Now who's being gross?”

“You're impossible,” Roman said in the exasperated tone that made it sound like _I love you_ all over again. 

“Yeah.” He grinned. “You wanna see me take my dick out anyway, right?”

“Not saying I'd be opposed,” Roman said, his smile curving up into wickedness, “but I just wanted to see you, period.”

“Be seeing me on Thursday. In the flesh,” he added, waggling his eyebrows and putting on a leer, basking some more in Roman's answering chuckle. “We ought to watch the show; end of an era and all that.”

“Sounds good. Got us a couple of nice steaks to put on the grill, and the liquor store's carrying that good bourbon we tried in Louisville now, so I grabbed us a fifth of that.”

That had been a good trip: no hassles with the rental or the hotel or arena security, hot crowd, chill hotel bar, whiskey warm in his belly, making out with his boy in an empty elevator, the taste of the booze as smooth and smoky on Roman's tongue as it had been from his glass.

He stretched extravagantly and sprawled out on the bed, the night starting to catch up with him. He turned onto his side and propped his head up on one hand, then angled the computer around so they'd still be face-to-face – or close to it as they could get tonight. “Fancy. What's the occasion?”

“Well, my favorite babe is coming home...”

“I know you ain't talking about me there, Cheeseball.”

“Afraid so, Asshole.”

Dean grinned and scooted closer to the screen, not even caring that it made him a cheesy fucker too. “Miss you.”

“Me, too,” Roman said. He ducked his head in the camera frame, his smile going bashful, and it killed Dean a little not to be able to lean in and kiss that look off his face. “I was going to feed you up anyway,” he said, “but there is kind of an occasion, if we want to make it one.”

“Lay it on me.”

“Was trying to organize some pictures earlier, and I realized we were in Osaka two years ago, like, to the day.”

“Holy shit. Yeah?” He breathed out a laugh, wondering how it was possible for that to feel like both forever ago and no time at all.

He let the memories of that night surface: the dull crankiness of jet-lag; the crack of a briefcase against his back; the hollow half-satisfaction of his fist on Seth's jaw; the pull of Roman's fingers skimming through his hair; the ache of sitting still in the face of his boy's fierce gentleness and raw words; the relief of finally kissing him, letting himself be kissed; the ease of falling asleep wound up together, all bare skin and thudding heartbeats. 

“Still with me, Babe?”

“Always,” he said, and watched Roman's smile go – impossibly – softer. “Just thinking that calls for cheesecake. Like, one of those Turtle ones with the really gooey carmel. I'll hit up that deli by the post office on my way in from the airport.”

"Nah, I'll pick one up tomorrow."

"Can't let you do all the work. S'your anniversary, too." The word felt heavy in his mouth - _anniversary_ \- like comfort and love and forever and all that other shit he still sometimes couldn't believe really applied to him. No point in being squirrelly about it though; he knew by now what this was - what they were together. 

"Don't need you to bring me anything but you."

"I _am_ a gift," he acknowledged with a crooked grin, and waited for the line about unwrapping him - or maybe tying him up with a bow - that Roman was surely composing behind his own smile. 

He didn't argue about it, but like hell he was showing up empty-handed. He was a crafty s.o.b.; he'd come up with something good between here and Roman's door. Believe that.


	5. July 19, 2016: Worcester and Worcester

"Knock 'em dead tonight, Champ!" Becky offered her fist as they met, going in opposite directions in the corridor outside catering.

He knocked his knuckles into hers, only hard enough to be friendly. "No worries. Gonna put on a _killer_ show," he said, throwing on the emphasis extra-thick just for her, and smiled at her delighted response.

"Deadly!" She grinned like he'd given her something better than a – frankly, kind of weak – pun, but her bright eyes faded some on catching sight of a P.A. steering a wobbly cart laden with t-shirts in sizes ranging from Big E to Alexa Bliss, the red pile spilling over on top of the smaller blue pile. She shook it off and smiled again, softer. "Sort of fitting that it feels a bit like we're all going to a funeral, right?"

He shook his head and started moving backward down the hall, away from the anxious buzz of catering back toward the relative peace of his dressing room. "Nobody's gettin' buried tonight, Bex."

Sometimes behind the curtain at showtime - soaking up adrenaline and only mostly-controlled chaos and the promise of a good fight - was his favorite place to be; it wasn't the only place that felt like home anymore, but it had still been the first. Tonight, though, something was off – everyone's vibe nervy and going sour, eyes cutting toward the Draft logo plastered everywhere or the color-coded merch or the the closed door of the conference room Bryan and Foley and assorted McMahons still hadn't emerged from – and he retreated away from the crowd before everyone else's tension could needle its way under his skin.

He'd have to spend some time in the green room later – maybe give an interview about defending his title, his slot in the draft; definitely celebrate or commiserate with everyone else about theirs – but for now he had a few minutes to spend however he felt like.

He pulled out his phone and tapped out a text.

_you get in ok?_

Roman was going to be stuck watching the draft on TV – with the time still running on his suspension, it'd seemed like a bad idea for him to show up at the arena, even just to root for Dean and give the twins hell and play Madden with Woods – but there was nothing to say he had to tune in from home, far away. He'd booked a last-minute flight into town, and Dean had left a key for him at the hotel's front desk.

It didn't take long for his phone to buzz in his palm, an erratic pulse of responses from his boy.

_ahh, yezzir_

He shook his head, smiling, and watched the screen fill with a selfie: Roman's reflection in the hotel mirror, Dean's initials stretched across his chest in fading letters, an amber glass bottle raised in a toast.

_in your hotel room_

_wearing your shirt_

_drinking your beer_

_waiting for you to come back and fuck me with the belt on_

He chuckled and let the lick of heat that thought put in his belly spread through him, warm and sweet. Whatever else happened during the heart of the night, at least they'd be together at the end of it.

* * *

_you're gonna look good in blue babe_

The text came fast after the announcement, Bryan only barely finished singing his praises, effusive even after all the times Dean remembered clotheslining him back in the day.

He didn't answer right away; partly because Naomi and Jimmy turned up just then to wrap him up in a congratulatory hug, but mostly because he wanted to hear who called Roman's name before he decided what to say. They hadn't really talked about the Draft or how it might play out for them. Specifically, they'd Not Talked About It in the same clumsy way they'd sometimes avoided talking about Seth - the way that meant they'd both thought about it pretty hard.

The first round wrapped, and he jawed with Jimmy and half-watched Cena throwing down with the bigger half of Styles's cheering section and waited not-too-patiently for the next five picks. Even if the suspension had dropped Roman's stock a little with the brass, he couldn't imagine him falling too far down the list. Or maybe he just didn't want to think about being held in suspense for much longer.

In any case, Naomi had given him a kiss on the cheek and a sad smile and was leading Jimmy out the door - probably as much to find a spot for the two of them to wait to hear whether they'd be split up as to give Dean some room with the announcement that Roman Reigns was headed to _Raw_ \- when the next message lit up his phone.

_at least we've been practicing?_

He sighed; being apart hadn't been something he wanted to get good at. Not after it'd taken so long to get used to being a part of something.

He was still by himself – hiding out for as long as he could get away with, which probably wouldn't be much longer. He could have just called, but he didn't want his voice to give anything away; wasn't ready to hear anything in Roman's that he couldn't do anything to fix. He tapped out an, honestly, pretty feeble response.

_be easier to put ourselves in line for a champion vs champion match this way i guess?_

By the time Roman responded, Xavier Woods was in the middle of the ring, staring fixedly at a leering Bray Wyatt. “Keep him out of your head, brother,” he murmured at the screen, knowing how much easier said than done that was.

_doin us all kinds of favors, yezzir_

The drawback of being too chickenshit to just call was that he also couldn't hear the tone of Roman's voice to judge whether his sarcasm was bitter or defeated or what. He watched Xavier shake off Wyatt's whammy before tapping out a string of replies.

_gonna be too busy to miss my loud ass_

_be workin for two_

_punchin Seth & pissin off Steph for both of us now_

Roman was quick to shoot back.

_doubting my work ethic?_

_I can do both babe_

_believe that ;)_

He smiled at the screen and rolled his eyes fondly, even with nobody around to catch the look.

He answered a tentative knock at the door and found a P.A. on the other side, bearing a blue Smackdown logo t-shirt, and beckoning him out to where Phillips and a production crew were set up for backstage reaction interviews. Cut a promo about taking his Title to Tuesdays. Sympathized with Sami about how much getting chokeslammed sucked; got to congratulate him on his pick, in ahead of Owens's. Collected a “Go Team Blue!” hug from Becky after Bryan called her name. Sent a couple of light lines out to Roman, shit like: _gonna be giving ya dirty jokes to pass on to Zayn for me too_ and _I miss the announcement on Cesaro? No way he's still on the board right?_. Snagged a pair of scissors and hacked the sleeves off of his new blue shirt.

Found Becky pacing an out-of-the-way bend of hallway where the officials had evidently left her to cool off after hauling her off of Natalya.

“I know it wasn't my fight tonight,” she sighed and flailed her hands. “But I let myself start thinking about the draft, and how if she goes to Raw, this might never be finished. And I'll just have to live with it.”

“I get it,” he said simply, and offered her a sip from the bottle he'd planned to soak down with at gorilla.

She looked at him seriously for a moment. Studied him. “I s'pose you do.” She smiled sadly and took the bottle from his hand.

“Let you in on a secret though,” he offered.

“One Blue soldier to another?” He decided to count it as a win that she looked like she wanted to laugh at him a little.

“Something like that.” He grinned, knowing that she was probably expecting an off-color joke more than anything else. “Nothing has to end tonight if we don't let it.”

* * *

He shot off one last _im here_ text before he dragged his ass out of the car and into the hotel. The door to the room was already open when he turned the corner from the elevator, the broad shape of his boy filling up the gap, arms open wide. "Welcome home, Champ," Roman said warmly, and wrapped his arms around him, backpack and duffle and all.

Dean let himself be waltzed in through the door. Let Roman's hands ruffle through his damp hair while he slithered out of the straps of his bag. Let him kiss him once, slow and sweet, while he leaned against him for leverage to kick out of his shoes. Let himself just breathe for a second and take in the crisp scent of Roman's soap and the faint, bitter taste of the beer on his tongue and the warmth and strength of the hands that moved down to frame his face between them.

It had only been a couple of days since he'd kissed him goodbye in Pensacola, but now Roman surged up into a kiss as deep and desperate as if it had been way longer, as if he was already marking out the days apart that stretched ahead of them. His hands dropped from Dean's jaw to his hips, fingers insinuating underneath the hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his pants.

He didn't think that Roman had been totally kidding about fucking with the belt on – it wouldn't have been the first time, after all – but he didn't mention it while he maneuvered Dean out of his clothes and down onto the bed or peppered kisses and bites all across his neck and shoulders and chest. It stayed in locked in its case and zipped up inside Dean's bag the whole time he wound his hands up in Roman's loose hair and gasped in his ear and scratched down his back. Neither of them brought it up while Roman was kneeling between his legs, fuller beard soft and ticklish against his inner thigh, nor later when Dean was hitching that same leg up around Roman's waist to draw him in closer and deeper.

If they'd talked about not bringing it out afterward, he figured they would have joked about what a relief it was, not having to clean all the crevices around the stones and in the engravings. He might have mourned the marks that it left where it rubbed or dug into skin, but Roman had left a few of those on his own, and it had been good, having nothing between them.

He stretched extravagantly, and looked up to catch Roman looking him over from the bathroom doorway.

"Thinkin' awful loud over there, big man,” he said. “Penny for 'em."

Roman smiled, sheepish and a little sad, and crossed back to the bed and slid beneath the covers. "I don't think they're worth that."

"Try me anyway," Dean said, and turned on his side to face him, snaking an arm and a leg through the blankets toward his warmth.

"I can't believe I cost us this last month, where we could've been making towns together. I know we figured it out, but it'll be harder when I get back on the road too. I'm just –” He sighed, and looked at the ceiling instead of at Dean. "Is this enough? Phone calls and pictures and jerking off alone?"

"Look at me," he said, leaning closer, landing his hand on Roman's chest, fingers spreading over his heart. He felt him take in a deep breath before he turned, eyes soft and scared, but meeting Dean's steadily. "Do I want more facetime without having to buy a fancier phone? Fuck, yes!" he exclaimed. "But this ain't forever, and you're enough, you know? More than." More than enough; more than he'd ever expected to have.

"Shit." Roman winced. "Didn't mean it like that, to sound like you aren't. I meant that you deserve more." He curved his own fingers around Dean's, holding on tight. "Somebody who can actually be there when you come back through the curtain or when you can't sleep. Somebody who's not an asshole, always talking around the foot in his mouth."

He gave himself a minute. Gave Roman a minute; was ready to give Roman all his time, really.

Once, he would have heard every bit of that insult in Roman's off-hand words, "not enough" cutting like razor wire, echoing in his head until he did something big and stupid and bloody to drown it out. He wasn't sure exactly when that had changed.

"Yeah, don't know what I ever did to deserve you," he said, deadpan, like Roman was a cross to bear instead of a gift he looked forward to finding new ways to say _Thank You_ for. He tugged their joined hands up from beneath the blanket and pressed a kiss against the backs of Roman's fingers. "Redo it every day if I did."


End file.
